


Let Me Live

by Chopin



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-07 01:14:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Blood - Warning
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3155333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chopin/pseuds/Chopin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometime close after aSiP, John is shot while on a case with Sherlock. Sherlock's horrified to discover that all a PanicAttack!John can say is "Please God, let me live."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Live

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/13188.html?thread=70862724#t70862724) here. Reposted from my original jounral [](http://khaki-assassin.livejournal.com/profile)

Author: [](http://adellin-cabbie.livejournal.com/profile)[**adellin_cabbie**](http://adellin-cabbie.livejournal.com/)  


Fandom: Sherlock BBC  
Title: Let Me Live  
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes  
Pairings: NA  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: Blood  
Notes: Written for this [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/13188.html?thread=70862724#t70862724) here. Reposted from my original jounral [](http://khaki-assassin.livejournal.com/profile)  
[ **khaki_assassin** ](http://khaki-assassin.livejournal.com/)

_"Sometime close after aSiP, John is shot while on a case with Sherlock.  
Sherlock's horrified to discover that all a panic attack-ed John can say really is "Please God, let me live." "_

 

.::.

It was hard and cold and painful and hot and painful, and John saw the cityscape and the desert sands.  
   
He saw the criminal, gun raised and steaming, being taken down by Sergeant Donovan in flying tackle that would have made her popular with his old rugby team.  
   
He saw an Arab, rifle erect and aiming, with an cold glint in his eyes as he stared John down, an army medic tending to his dying patient, and fired.  
   
Then that gun smoked too.  
   
The shock of it all snapped Captain Watson backwards, like he had fallen from some great height. All the air had rushed out of his lungs, and a burning tore through his chest like someone had jacked him with a ice-cold blade.  
   
John felt the impact of the bullet; small though it may be, the force of it had spun him to his left, curling into the wound, as he tumbled and fell down onto the cobblestone – finally collapsing on his back with one great exhale.  
   
Captain Watson breathed in deeply, trying to understand; but could only feel a great weight settle on his chest. The oxygen in his lungs turned to liquid and bubbled up his esophogas, spilling out of his mouth forcing him to choke and cough as he mangaged to wriggle onto his side. The sand absorbed his blood like one great big sponge, and he could only watch helplessly as his life drained from him.  
   
John gasped, panic setting in, when he found he couldn’t breathe. The gunman could still hurt someone, finish John off or try for someone else - like Gregory or Sherlock; but John knew that was ridiculous. The gunman would only want John, he only _ever_ wanted John. Always John.  
   
Captain Watson tried to press down on his shoulder, he needed to staunch the bleeding until Bill could get to him, and then he heard an unmistakable click of a rifle. He raised his head, only to be looking down the long barrel of that blasted bloody rifle.  
   
John gasped, a chocked sob escaping his lips, as he tried to scramble backwards. The man could still be after John.  The man would still be after John. He would stand over him and hold that gun to his head and demand in a language he only barely understood to beg for his life. Oh, please not again.  
   
Fire ripped through his leg as the man shot another chunk of lead into him.  
   
“Beg for your life.” He had demanded in English, “Beg God for your life, and I might let you live.”  
   
Captain Watson looked up, past the white sun and at the covered figure of the man standing above him. He could feel his red blood ooze out between his fingers, flow freely out of his shoulder, soak the ground and staunch his clothes.  
   
 _“Please, God, Let me live.”_  
   
John gripped his shoulder harder, tears streaming down his face as he hunched closer in on himself and prayed again – louder.  
   
 _“Please, God, let me live.”_  
   
A dry sob escaped him when he saw a shadow bend down beside him, hand outstretched.  
   
 _“Please, God, let me live.”_ John pleaded again. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to die. He was scared, he was afraid, and he didn’t want to die.  
   
 _“Please, God, let me live.”  I don’t want to die._  
   
-  
   
Sherlock never felt his heart constrict as it had when McBride pulled a gun out from underneath his coat and shot John.  
   
He saw his friend’s eyes widen before sliding shut as he crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.  
   
He had found himself immediately at John’s side, his hands pressed over the doctor’s lax and feeble ones so as to keep John’s blood _inside_ his body.  
   
Sherlock hadn’t almost heard it the first time, but then he saw John’s eyes open, watery and frightened; and he had pleaded so desperately and with so much passion that Sherlock felt his heart wrench itself out of his chest with grief. With Regret. With Pain.  
   
 _“Please, God, let me live.”_  
   
Sherlock didn’t know what to do other than keep pressure on the bullet wound in John’s chest. He couldn’t let John die. John can’t die. He just couldn’t.  
   
 _“Please, God, let me live.”_ John begged again, his voice beginning to slur, _“Please, God.”_ He choked on the blood beginning to pool in his mouth, _“Let me live.”_  
   
Sherlock closed his eyes as he heard the sirens finally pierce the bitter air.  
   
 _“Please, God, let him live.”_  
   
   
 

.::.


End file.
